


there's something in your loving (that tears down my walls)

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: “Relax.” Jaskier puts his free hand on Geralt’s stomach and presses down, hard, until the tension begins to ebb and flow, dispersing through Geralt’s body instead of accumulating in one spot. He rubs the soft layer of flesh atop Geralt’s muscles. “This isn’t a battle.”“Isn’t it?”“No.” Jaskier kisses Geralt’s thigh again. He inhales, deeply, as if Geralt’s scent is his favorite. It is. It always has been. “It is never a battle with me.”-Jaskier and Geralt have soft sex.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 350





	there's something in your loving (that tears down my walls)

**Author's Note:**

> my brain said PORN, but make it softe 
> 
> title is from sweetest devotion by adele for many many many reasons <3

Jaskier kisses the inside of Geralt’s thigh, nuzzling at the fuzz there. “Spread your legs for me, darling,” he says into the warm skin, slicking his fingers with oil as Geralt does so. It’s Geralt’s favorite scent—honeysuckle and vanilla, fresh and musky and faint all at once, encasing the two of them in a bubble in their room. “That’s good, so good.”

He moves into the space that Geralt makes for him, nestling his shoulders between Geralt’s spread legs and using his width to keep them open, wide and obscene, as he prompts Geralt to lift his hips so he can slide his slick fingers back toward his puckered hole. It’s hot, like a furnace, like the raw heat of the sun, and Geralt makes a choked-off noise as Jaskier circles the furl before pressing the tip of his finger just inside.

He flicks his eyes upward, taking in Geralt’s appearance. He’s bare except for his shirt, strings undone and rucked up just beneath his tits, which are wet and kiss-swollen, red from Jaskier’s prickly facial hair and his teeth. The flush on his chest scatter across his tummy, to the tops of his thighs. Geralt looks ravished, and Jaskier hasn’t even gotten inside of him yet.

Jaskier chuckles. “Good?”

Geralt’s eyes find Jaskier’s. They look like liquid sunshine in the candlelight. “Yes,” he answers, breathy, hoarse, like he’s fought a hundred monsters. His body is tight, arched, as if he’s ready to fight more.

“Relax.” Jaskier puts his free hand on Geralt’s stomach and presses down, hard, until the tension begins to ebb and flow, dispersing through Geralt’s body instead of accumulating in one spot. He rubs the soft layer of flesh atop Geralt’s muscles. “This isn’t a battle.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Jaskier kisses Geralt’s thigh again. He inhales, deeply, as if Geralt’s scent is his favorite. It is. It always has been. “It is never a battle with me.”

“You’ve gone soft.”

Jaskier tilts his hips and presses his cock against Geralt’s leg. “I promise you, my darling,” he says, grinning, infatuated with the glow of Geralt’s eyes, as captivating as they’ve always been, since the very first moment Jaskier saw them, “that I’m as far from soft as I can be.”

Geralt makes a noise. It’s more annoyance than pleasure; the furrow between his brows, too, is pinched in aggravation. Jaskier sighs and puts his thumb to the tender skin between Geralt’s hole and balls, pressing till Geralt whines, unchaste and half-stupid. Geralt’s eyes roll back into his head and he whimpers, trembling. He only lets go once Geralt pats the back of his head, rather hard. He smears his laughter into Geralt’s skin and props himself up on his elbow, gazing at his witcher.

“You’re stunning.”

Geralt huffs. “Enough,” he says. His cheeks are pink like almost-ripe strawberries that are too sour to indulge.

“If you say so.” Jaskier pushes his finger in just a little more. Geralt is tight heat, protesting against the intrusion for a split moment before his body is suddenly sucking his finger in like a starving man eating as much air as he can. Jaskier shivers. “May I add another?”

Geralt swallows. Jaskier watches the movement of his throat, enthralled. He wishes to fill it till Geralt is choking and spit is wetting them.

“I can take it,” Geralt says, resolute.

Jaskier sighs. Geralt _promised,_ dammit, that he would not “take it” but, instead, enjoy it. “I know you can,” Jaskier agrees, only a little exasperated, “but you don’t have to do that any longer.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, recalling the flash of fear on Geralt’s face years ago, the first time they fell into one another’s arms after that cursed mountain. He’ll never forget. “Can you take another now, sweetheart?”

Geralt is quiet. And then, “Yes, Jaskier,” so softly, like it’s a secret meant only for them, only for the flickering candle flame and the half moon shining through the opened window. Still, even after all this time—and time it has been, years stacked upon years like the layers of the sweet cakes that Geralt pretends he does not like—Geralt has trouble expressing himself. He’s gotten better, but it’s difficult to teach an old dog new tricks.

(“Shut up, Jaskier.”)

Jaskier adds more oil to his fingers and dips back into Geralt with two. There’s resistance, as is expected, but Geralt breathes through his nose, widens his legs, _how pretty_ , and relaxes his body, and Jaskier is in as far as he can go without shoving.

He swallows and grins, feeling like he’s flying. “You’re a dream.”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier settles himself between Geralt’s legs once more, setting his chin on the bedding so he can watch the way Geralt’s hole contracts in protest as he pulls his fingers out, as he pushes his fingers back in. “Yes, lovely?”

“You don’t have to romance me, Jaskier.” Geralt looks at him. There’s a twinkle in his eye, like he’s laughing at a joke but it’s directed at himself. “You’ve got me.”

“Do I?” Jaskier kisses Geralt’s thigh and leans up. Geralt’s dick, pretty and thick and long, uncut and wet at the tip, the perfect seat for Jaskier to perch on, is flopped against his belly. Jaskier presses his tongue flat against the base, delighting in Geralt’s sharp intake of breath and his reflexive reach for Jaskier’s hair, and drags upward till he is at the tip. He kisses, and suckles, and the taste is tart but it’s Geralt and it’s good. “Do I have you, witcher?”

Geralt growls, half-feral, and Jaskier giggles as Geralt twines his fingers in his hair and tugs him up, hard, till they are face to face. “You are such a little shit,” he says, exasperated but adoring, with a crooked smile that’s just this side of boyish, a piece of Geralt’s many pieces that broke off and fell into Jaskier’s hands, and pulls Jaskier into a kiss. It’s easy, gentle, but then Jaskier angles his fingers, scissors them apart, tickles that little spot that makes Geralt shiver and go stupid, and he’s suddenly curling his tongue against Geralt’s and eating his sighs of pleasure.

They kiss for long moments, languid and wet; Jaskier leans away to lick a bit of spit off Geralt’s jaw before diving back in. He adds a third finger, gobbling the punched out sound Geralt makes, and smiles against Geralt’s lips until they can kiss no longer but, instead, breathe hot puffs of air into one another’s mouth.

Jaskier tastes Geralt a second more before pulling away. He sits back on his haunches and removes his fingers slowly. He touches Geralt’s hole, feeling the heat of the stretch, and hooks his finger, tugs, and puts his hand on the meat of the inside of Geralt’s thigh, keeping him open and spread when he gasps and wants to shut his legs. He is so red and wide.

Jaskier blinks up at Geralt. “I’m going to make you cry,” he says, a promise between them in the heat of their room.

“Swear?”

“Of course.” He grins. “Now, please stop distracting me. I have a mission.”

Geralt huffs. “A mission,” he reiterates, mostly to himself. “You are a fool.”

“Perhaps I am.” Jaskier kisses his way down Geralt’s stomach. He is so beautiful, riddled with scars that tell stories. Jaskier knows all of them. “But it’s no matter. Fool or not, I still love you, and you still love me, too.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The way he cradles Jaskier’s face in the palm of his hands, rubbing the skin beneath Jaskier’s eye, is truth enough. He loves Jaskier the same way that Jaskier loves him—with all the madness in their soul, something that was there and belonged to the other long before they were born.

Jaskier adjusts till he is back between Geralt’s spread legs, a favorite place of his. He slicks his up once more and presses in again; he stuffs his face into Geralt’s pubic hair and breathes the musky scent of his arousal in before he begins to scissor his three fingers.

Geralt stiffens for a moment before all the tension leaves his body like a cloud of smoke reaching the sky. Jaskier soothes and smears his mouth against Geralt’s stomach. Geralt sighs, eased, and then, abruptly, he gasps, and Jaskier grins, raking his fingers along that spot of pleasure.

He finds Geralt’s length with his mouth, tonguing the slit. He drags his teeth down the shaft, just a little bit of pain, the way Geralt likes, and sucks bruises at the base of the vein that twines upward like ivy. He takes Geralt’s balls in his mouth, too, and suckles one and then the other, nuzzling his nose into the hair and breathing as deep as he can.

Geralt cries out. He shoves his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, harshly, and Jaskier moves where he is directed, opening his mouth and allowing Geralt to slip inside. He nurses the head, dribbling his spit down the length before he sinks, hollowing his cheeks and stripping Geralt’s cock with his tongue in rhythm with the pace of his fingers.

It does not take long. Geralt feels so much—pain is more, extreme, but so is pleasure, a fleeting flame in the pit of his stomach that spreads and engulfs him as if he is dry, dead wood. He comes and Jaskier swallows without missing a moment, relaxing his throat and pressing down till his nose is flush with Geralt’s stomach.

He holds himself there, steady and firm, since Geralt is not softening. He adjusts the thrust of his fingers, straightening and pressing against Geralt’s spot, keeping there for long moments. Geralt’s cock jerks in his mouth once, twice, three times; Geralt gives an aborted cry, one that sounds like it’s pulled from deep within the valley of his chest, and comes again, weak, dribbles of jizz that Jaskier lets fall from his mouth.

He pulls off with an obscene pop that makes Geralt whimper and licks off the cum that dripped. He jerks Geralt slowly, languidly; Geralt is making a melody of constant noise now, streams of half-formed cries and whines that hang heavy in the air like a thick fog hiding them from the rest of the world.

Geralt comes once more. It’s mostly dry, just a quick spurt that nearly hits Jaskier in the eye. He eases his fingers from Geralt and moves from between his spread legs; both of his hands find Geralt’s meaty thighs and he kneads the flesh there, knowing that Geralt will be somewhat sore from holding himself open so long.

He looks at Geralt. “You’re crying.”

Geralt nods. He makes no move to wipe the tears off his face. They’re gorgeous, fat little pockets of water.

“Well, you did promise,” Geralt says, raw, and gives Jaskier a bright, satisfied grin. “I love you, you fool.”

Jaskier laughs. He crawls up Geralt’s body and lays in Geralt’s proffered arms; they kiss lazily, easily, tasting one another. He settles Geralt’s steady tremors, whispering praise against Geralt’s lips. Geralt clings like a wine stain to a white cloth. Jaskier kisses him some more.

They break apart when they can’t breathe. Jaskier lays his head against Geralt’s chest and listens to Geralt’s heartbeat. It’s fast, even for him, and won’t slow for a while still. That’s okay—Ciri is with Yennefer for the season, and their family knows not to disturb them when they’re at the coast in their cottage unless it is a dire emergency. Besides, they’ll meet up at the bottom of the mountains in a few week’s time, anyway.

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s cock, probably to return the favor because he’s a bastard and he cannot leave well enough alone, and Jaskier bats his hand away. “Not yet,” he says, putting his face between Geralt’s tits and inhaling. “Let me lie here for a moment and rest.”

Geralt hums, acknowledging Jaskier, and brings his hands up. He puts all ten fingers through Jaskier’s hair and combs through the thick brown half-curls, scratching his scalp. It’s soothing.

“If you keep that up I’ll fall asleep.”

“You need it.” Geralt’s voice rumbles in his chest beneath Jaskier’s cheek. It’s lovely. “You’re not as young as you once were.”

Jaskier pinches Geralt’s nipple. Geralt laughs. Both of them know that Jaskier does not look a day older than the moment they met, half a century ago. And it will stay like that, too, for as long as they shall live.

“Idiot.” Jaskier huffs and rolls his eyes; he’s smiling, though, as he leans up and puts his mouth across Geralt’s, kissing him tenderly, gently, because he is precious and Jaskier has spent over half of his life telling him so.

Geralt begins to smile against Jaskier’s lips, and suddenly they’re not kissing anymore but, instead, laughing into one another’s mouths, and Jaskier is still giggling even as Geralt rolls him over onto his back and sits up, straddles his hips, sinks down on his length. They move slow and languid, and Geralt sucks Jaskier’s fingers, as angelic as a newborn star, and Jaskier thinks that if soulmates are honest things, then the man before him is surely his.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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